Isn't Life Swell?
by Rayless Night
Summary: The usual. Zetta. Salome. King Drake? Yup. Quite a lot of Drake. Not a single Deep Theme in sight. If you have an aversion to bad poetry or zombies, then...shoo. Begone.
1. Wherein All Sing

_Author's Obligatory Note: This fic (like every other MK-related thing I write) works off several premises I establish in my Salome-centric story _Wishes_. However, it's a stand-alone. The only thing you need to know is that I think (and I think the game indirectly supports this) that Zetta and Salome were actually a couple during her apprenticeship (bear in mind that I haven't read any of the novels; if you have and notice I've totally ruined the canon, feel free to let me know). This story takes place pre-game (somewhere during chapter 6, if you've read _Wishes_). Oh yes, and there is no band named Epitaph. I made both it and the song up, so there is no copyright issue here. Have a nice day._

_However, I did lift the "two people singing a duet while one's in a shower" from the movie _Elf_, though in this case neither participant is aware that it's going on._

* * *

_Disclaimer:_ Makai Kingdom_ is the property of Nippon Ichi Software. Rating is for language, violence and suggestive themes. Though this is a humor story, it deals with dark stuff in a lighthearted way, so some content may be disturbing and/or triggering._

* * *

**Isn't Life Swell?**

**1 **

Oh yes. It was a good day to be King Drake the Third.

The Lion Overlord crouched in the sludge, a loyal brawler at either elbow, a pair of plastic binoculars held to his glowing red eyes. The military camp was spread two-hundred yards away in the swamp, small mountain ranges of hastily pitched olive green tents interspersed by sputtering campfires. Drake's black feline lips drew apart in a snarling grin. The enemy's scouts had been no match for Drake's men, not when they had Molotov Cocktails. Though his forces were meager, they were the truest any Overlord could desire.

Pepe, on his right, wiped his nose with a muddy finger. Come to think of it, Drake realized, coming, in fact, to think of it, they were all a bit mucky from belly-crawling in the mud. Drake's eyes focused from Pepe to the two grand tents at the camp's center. Well. Those no doubt would be equipped with showers.

Drake cleared his throat. "Forward march!"

Shlupshlupshlupshlup. They elbow-crawled eastward through the goop.

Drake called a halt after twenty yards, checking their cover. It was an ideal swamp for concealment, literally choked by skeletal trees and slimy vines and walls of mosquitoes.

Drake leaned forward, his fuzzy, cup-shaped ears angled towards the camp. In a moment, he heard it -the sound of half his forces attacking the camp from the west, screaming that everyone was about to die BWA HAW HAW HAAAAAW!

"Go!" Drake shouted. With a loud SHOOP! sound, he and his ten brawlers extracted themselves from the muck and went hurtling towards the camp, muddy feet flapping.

They slowed down when they actually got there.

The camp was now deserted. All of the enemy fighters had been drawn into the extreme west of the swamp. Even the cooks had picked up their spatulas and gone.

_Yes,_ Drake thought, his eyes growing wondrously wide as he surveyed the camp. _This is the perfect day to be ME._

They trooped to the camp's center, to the two large tents. Drake wheeled to face his soldiers, flinging mud from his curly blue mane and long cape. "Okay. We have to make the most of this opportunity. Calixtus, Enkidu -go raid the merchants' tents, grab all the weapons and armor you can carry. Ulric, you and Othello are our watchmen. As soon as you see the enemy returning, get your backsides back here. Apollo, Moncharmin and Pepe -grab those wheelbarrows and follow me!"

And with that, King Drake proudly led them through the tent flap of Overlord Zetta's private, personal, exclusive tent.

"Ooooo," ooooed Moncharmin. "How'd he bring that Jacuzzi?"

"Never mind the Jacuzzi," Drake commanded (after casting one envious look at the hot tub by the enormous black-curtained bed). "Focus on what we can cart out."

"Like this?" Apollo held up a potted blood-oozing cactus.

"No, not like that! Unless you want me to scrub your face with it-"

"Like this?" Pepe asked, holding up an enormous six-bladed chainsaw.

"Yes, like that! Okay, Pepe, you look through his weapons chest. Apollo, you focus on his dresser drawers."

"Dresser drawers?"

Drake chuckled, rubbing his paws together. "Why should we leave him any spare clothes while he's fighting in a swamp? Anyway, check out the drawers. Moncharmin, you search the room to see where he hides his money. I'll..." Drake's eyes got a contemplative look. He blushed under his fur.

Oh my-

How could he even think of-

That was positively incredible-

He couldn't believe that'd he'd even consider such a-

But still, why not? It would be a while before they got this chance again -and what self-respecting Overlord wouldn't exploit all his enemy's resources? "I will be -er, back. Shortly." He turned quickly and strode out of the tent.

"Dude," said Apollo as he dumped the contents of Zetta's sock drawer onto the ground. "Did he look guilty?"

Moncharmin was fiddling with the Jacuzzi's controls. "Way guilty."

oOoOoOoOo

Drake had not gone far. All he'd done was get another wheelbarrow and cross over to the other large tent. Drake paused at the flap, his fuzzy fingers lingering over it. _This is for strictly military reasons, nothing...er...um...strange...odd...or perverse...about it._ He mentally cleared his throat. _Right._ He flung wide the tent flap and boldly stepped into the home-away-from-home of Lord Zetta's One and Only Beloved Apprentice.

The beguiling scent of mountain jasmine greeted his nostrils. Drake's nose whiffled a few times appreciatively, then he set his mind to his mission.

The first thing he observed was another four poster bed, smaller than Zetta's and colored deep red. To the bed's left was the door to the bathroom, to the right was an ornate black vanity. Drake walked over and studied himself in the mirror. He used a corner of the bed's coverlet to clean his face a bit.

Drake's attention was instantly claimed by a large trunk to the side of the vanity, made of wood and reinforced with three iron bands. There had been another one like it, and Pepe had found Zetta's chainsaw within. Filled to the brim with dangerous levels of greed and glee, Drake withdrew his universal lock-pick and pounced. In a moment, he'd jerked the top up. He dove a paw in and come up with a tube of

hand lotion?

Drake read the label a second time. Orange and ginger hand lotion. Drake snarled. Unless this was some clever disguise for a hand grenade... He tossed the tube over his shoulder, hearing it bounce on the bed.

The next handful yielded a box containing two pink egg-shaped somethings mysteriously labeled "bath fizzies" (pomegranate-citrus scented), and the third handful was rewarded by a pair of glittery blue bedroom slippers. Snarling in frustration, Drake threw the slippers against the vanity. They hit a drawer, popping it open a bit, just enough for Drake to glimpse the clutch of a semiautomatic tucked inside.

Ooooo. Drake perched on the velvet vanity seat and opened the drawer further. It _was_ a semiautomatic. And there was a cute little antiaircraft gun in the drawer under it. And in the jewelry box? A collection of throwing knives and silver bullets. Oooo, and down here, swords...

Feeling chipper, Drake began to sing one of his favorite songs as he rapidly filled his wheelbarrow with lethal weapons.

"_Isn't life sweet, isn't life swell,_

_When your morals run pell-mell?_

_Well, maybe there's a thief afraid of hell,_

_But I know flames ain't no place to dwell."_

oOoOoOoOo

It was actually a very popular song, being Epitaph's Top 666 Hit of '85. Over in Lord Zetta's tent, the brawlers had been blessed with such good fortune that they too were inclined to sing.

"_And isn't life grand when you're uncouth?"_ Moncharmin sang, slipping into a Jacuzzi full of luxurious purple bubbles.

Pepe was trying to figure out how to get a fifteen foot long pike into his wheelbarrow. _"Sure as you're a bore, that's the simple truth."_

"_You don't need a doctor, don't need a sleuth," _Apollo sang, trying on one of Zetta's many leather jackets (the one with all the little steel spikes on the shoulders and the red lining). He kept it on and tossed a heap of Zetta's leather pants into the wheelbarrow. _"Coz there's rude and you're its perfect proof!"_

"Proof and sleuth _so _don't rhyme," Moncharmin observed before sinking languidly under the bubbles.

oOoOoOoOo

Drake had found the apprentice's jewelry stashed in the hilt of a long black claymore (What _was _her name again, the little human witch? Salade?). He took a moment to run his claws through a rope of blood-red pearls before dumping the claymore and its contents into his now-groaning wheelbarrow. Drake got up from the vanity. Hmmm, still lots of good stuff to get here. Like those pillowcases -those must be silk. Sheesh, the human dame gets_ silk._ Drake picked up something that appeared to be a long, shimmery burgundy towel. Well, that was pretty. Would probably get a few hundred HL. In it went with the swords and guns and pearls. Over to her writing desk. Whuh -what was this? Hee hee, she had a little Zetta plushie doll. Oh just look at this! Little chibi Zetta! Drake squeezed the plush tummy. A little tinny version of Zetta's voice proclaimed "I'm the most badass freakin' Overlord in the universe!" Oh, that was just priceless. Into the wheelbarrow. What else...Oh, this prinny-headed pen was to die for. Ooo, the eyes lit up when you wrote! Chuckling, Drake wrote on a sheaf of stationary "KING DRAKE is the most badass freakin Overlard in the universe!" and moved on. Too bad the prinny-pen hadn't come with spellcheck. Okay, now let's see about these drawers... Drake was so caught up in his rummage fest, had been, in fact, so caught up since the moment he'd entered, that he'd never noticed that the shower in the bathroom was running.

oOoOoOoOo

When the alt-heavy metal band Epitaph wrote a hit, they wrote a hit. Even Salome, Zetta's human apprentice, was singing it as she showered. The noise of the water would drown out her voice to any listeners, but she could hear her own ringing alto perfectly well, due to the shower stall's fabulous acoustics.

"_And when you're a bore there's nothing more to be done,_

_Than shoot your cuffs and bring on the fun."_

Salome paused a moment as she worked melon-cucumber scented shampoo into her short blonde hair, not wanting any shampoo to trickle into her mouth (always a danger to shower-singers).

"_Once you've got the civilized world on the run,_

_Then call it a day and become a nun." _

"_OR NOT!"_ Drake sang lustily as he flung wide Salome's wardrobe, getting an eyeful of about twenty slinky dresses and high-heeled sandals. _"If you've not shot your bolt-"_ He dove into the wardrobe.

"_If you ain't out to pasture," _Salome sang, blinking soap out of her eyes, _"then you're still a colt!_

"_If you're an eagle not about to molt-"_ She twisted the shower head, cutting off the water. She was just stepping out of the shower and reaching for her towel when she heard, from the main room of her tent -

"_JUST GO ROCK OUT, DON'T BE A DOLLLLLLLLLT!"_

Salome's eyes narrowed. A dangerous thing, Zetta could've told Drake. Salome took just long enough to tuck her towel around herself before she flung the bathroom door wide open.

oOoOoOoOo

"Duuuuuude," said Moncharmin, taking another swig of whiskey from Zetta's personal mini-bar. "They could've used 'tooth'. Tooth rhymes with 'sleuth'."

Pepe, from his seat by the weapons trunk where he was busy sorting mallets into piles of Large, Very Large, and Strictly for Elephantine Adversaries, nodded. Apollo, spritzing some of Zetta's cologne on, also nodded.

oOoOoOoOo

Drake backed out of the closet, whistling happily. He hadn't found much useful except for a pair of shoes -red leather six-inch stiletto heels. As in, actual stiletto daggers for the heels (they probably were very useful during bouts of otherwise unarmed combat). Just as he'd lobbed the pumps into the wheelbarrow, he thought he heard the sound of water dripping on the floor and whirled in the direction of the bathroom.

Drake's red eyes went as round and wide as stoplights.

This was his first real view of Zetta's much-rumored apprentice, and this particular view was only wearing a towel. Granted, it was a very large towel, covering all requisite areas and long enough to be halfway to her knees (it was also black, monogrammed with little gold Ss attached to silver batwings. In case you were interested). Granted, Drake wasn't exactly humanoid, being a muscley lion demon, and demons in general are apt to look down on humans. Still, there were a few seconds when Drake just stared at her, her tall, curvy figure, her glistening pale skin, her sleek golden hair, her gracefully long ears and her sharply narrowed red eyes.

"Ah," he choked after those few seconds. "You must be Salami."

oOoOoOoOo

"Or," Moncharmin said, eating a chocolate bar he'd discovered under Zetta's pillow, "they could've used 'youth'. Youth would've worked. You know, something like _Don't need a doctor, don't need a sleuth/ Coz you're rude and crude and it's not just youth._ Yup," Moncharmin nodded, taking another bite of dark chocolate-walnut-truffle goodness.

Apollo lifted a pair of chain-link shoelaces from Zetta's bureau. "Shoot. How often do you think he _uses_ these?"

oOoOoOoOo

"Salome."

"Heh?" Drake asked, mouth a little dry. This human wench had more curves than a scenic route.

"Salome."

"Oh...er... Salaam to you too."

Her eyes narrowed even further.

"Well." Drake cleared his throat and glanced at the wheelbarrow, gauging his options. He wasn't going to be carting _that _off, not now. With any luck, his lackeys would've already gathered a good haul. With any luck, he'd be getting out of here alive. He started to back towards the door, a smarmy smile bisecting his face. "I was just, er, helping you with your spring cleaning. But you probably want to get dressed now, so I'll just be going-"

"Wait."

"Eh -no -I don't think so-"

"Aren't you going to take the wheelbarrow?"

Drake came up short. "Heh?"

Salome snapped her fingers. "You heard me. I ordered all this stuff to be carted out! I've been waiting for you all morning. I'm in the middle of a swamp, for badness sake, don't leave me with all this junk!"

"Oh -er-" Drake instantly assumed the attitude of a solicitous demon servant. "Yes, your ladyship, of course!" He bounded over to the wheelbarrow and lifted the handles. "My apologies!" He wheeled the barrow around and went trotting out the door, his tail lashing blithely. He only stopped when he realized she'd followed him out, conjuring a magical walkway to keep her feet clear of the mud.

Drake turned to look at her. About fifteen feet lay between them. "Er, yes?"

"You forgot your payment.

Salome didn't do much. Merely pouted her lower lip slightly. Drake's eyes widened. Oh. Oh my. He, of course, wasn't planning on anything lengthy. After all, he was almost home-free. And, come to think of it, he was also married. But a kiss? Well now, wouldn't that be interesting? He'd never kissed a human before. Oh, there were rumors about humans carrying all sorts of hideous diseases (such as rabies), but those were probably nothing. Besides, wouldn't it be fun to rub this episode in Zetta's pointy face later?

Drake released the barrow and strode over to her.

Of course the enormous Mana-nulling cage dropped from the trees above him long before he got anywhere near her.

oOoOoOoOo

"Or even," Moncharmin observed, snuggled up in Zetta's bed with a large black pillow pressed against his cheek, "they could'uff said 'noof'." He took a another slug of Vanilla Choke mixed with bourbon. "Yeh know..._yer rude...yer shrewd...you are a noof_."

"Dude," Pepe said, trying to figure out the difference between Zetta's Estoc and his Schiavona (honestly, they both just looked like swords to him, and he was a sword master), "noof rhymes with proof. Proof is what we're trying _not_ to rhyme."

Apollo turned away from the full-length mirror in Zetta's armoire. He was wearing about seven belts, one slung slantwise over his left hip, one slung slantwise over his right hip, two buckled around his right thigh, one buckled around his chest, one around his arm, and one actually holding his pants up. "Hey, do you think King Drake will let me keep these?"

oOoOoOoOo

"Gwaaah!" Drake stopped short as the cage snapped shut around him, even sealing off the mud with a Mana-nulling floor. Drake whirled back towards the wheelbarrow. It, of course, was on the other end of the bars.

"I didn't think it would make such a good cat carrier," a soft voice said.

Drake whirled on her. "A trick! Damn you, Salmagundi!"

"The first thing I'm going to do," she replied sweetly, "is teach my cat my name." She smiled. "My name is-" Suddenly there was a tide of fire from her open palm, and Drake was slammed backwards against the rungs of his cage. "-Salome. You must be King Drake."

"The Third," he huffed, pulling himself back to his feet.

Salome raised her fine eyebrows. "Really? Couldn't Drake the Second have done better?"

Drake growled deep in his throat. Then he had to cough a few times. When he looked up, Salome had come right up to the cage, the magical path keeping up with her feet.

"Maybe I'll start a zoo," she mused. "Zetta can always use new sources of revenue."

"Your precious Zetta is a scrawny, pasty, fluffy-haired-"

"Or maybe I'll make him a lionskin coat for his birthday."

"Er-"

"I wonder what sort of leather lion hide would come up with."

"Very bad leather. Trust me. He, er, wouldn't thank you."

"What were you doing here?" Salome asked, finally getting down to hard facts.

Drake sputtered. "Robbing you blind! Did it look like anything else?"

"True, but why does the exalted King Drake the Product of Two Very Uninspired Generations have need to steal?"

"I don't have any reason! I just -psychological warfare is crucial to successful -eh, hey! Where are you going?" By then, Salome had meandered back into her tent, leaving Drake quite alone.

He spun in the direction of Zetta's tent. "Moncharmin! Apollo! PEPE!"

oOoOoOoOo

"Man," said Apollo, "this guy has a great CD collection."

"Turn it up," Pepe said, wanting some louder music to focus him while he inventoried Zetta's war flails, his double-star flails and his cat-o-nine tails before moving onto the falchions and badelaires. After that, he would be considering the cinquedea, the coustille and the sgian dubh, but not until he'd figured out how to pronounce the last one.


	2. Wherein Drake Amazes Himself

**2**

When Salome came back out five minutes later, she was still barefoot but wearing a strapless red dress. She'd also taken a moment to dry her hair and apply some black lipstick. Drake noticed that her toenails were also painted black. It didn't give him any sort of advantage, but there you go. "I've been thinking."

Drake, who'd been struggling to fit his broad chest between two iron bars, stopped struggling and sat back with a huff. "_What_?"

Salome was looking around the area outside of her and Zetta's tents. Looking himself, Drake noticed that his other lackeys had dumped their booty here: weapons, tanks, drills, even a large ornate horsehair sofa (but where were his faithful lackeys?)

"You can't be King Drake," Salome explained. "Zetta told me King Drake's a lion."

Drake was nonplussed. "I'm a lion."

Salome frowned. "Don't lie to me."

"I never lie!"

"Oh please. You look more like a hamster than anything else."

"Hamster?" Drake expostulated. "I'll have you know that no hamster has muscles like _these_!" And he took a moment to flex the rippling, furry muscles in his chest, his arms and his thighs.

Salome looked at him blankly. "A hamster on steroids."

"Wha-? No! Look -look at this tail! This is a proud, leonine tale -it's long and skinny and has a puff-puff on the end! No hamster has a tail like this!"

Salome put her head to one side in thought. "But gerbils do," she said after a moment.

"WHA?"

"All right, we've established that you're a King-Drake-Impersonating-Gerbil who has set out to rob Lord Zetta blind," Salome said, crossing her arms and striding around the cage. "The question is, why?"

"I am not a gerbil!"

Salome nodded. "That's exactly what an impostor would say." She stopped by the wheelbarrow. After a moment, she reached down and withdrew an item. She narrowed her eyes coldly at her prisoner. "You were going to steal my Zetta plushie?"

"Eh-" said the gerbil. Then he snarled. "You shut up!"

"I couldn't possibly. I have the upper hand. I would be neglecting my obligations."

"Ha! Upper hand? I know all about _you_."

Salome widened her eyes and smiled. "How flattering."

Drake gritted his teeth.

Taking her Zetta plushie, Salome sauntered over to the horsehair sofa and lay down across it, propping the plushie on one of the pillows and stretching her arm languidly along one hip. She then gave Drake her full attention. "What about me?"

"What about you? Hah! There isn't much _to _you!"

"There isn't?"

"What's to talk about? You're just some little human pet Zetta's set up in a love-nest."

Salome snorted.

Drake bristled. "Did you snort?"

"No." She waved her hand. "Go on. I'm in a love-nest. And what am I doing there?"

"Eh..."

After waiting a moment, Salome tried again. "All right, I'm a pet then. Zetta's taught me how to catch a frisbee in my teeth, right? Or does he just have me balance doggie treats on my nose?" She sat up suddenly, looking past Drake. "Speaking of which..."

"Humph!" Drake folded his muscular arms. "Don't ask _me_ to explain why Zetta keeps you around. I'm sure you know well enough!"

"But I don't," Salome replied, getting up from the couch. "_You're_ the one who knows everything about me."

"Listen up!" Drake shouted. "Let me out of here you little -HEY! Where are you going _this_ time? Come back, damn you-"

oOoOoOoOo

Salome came back after five minutes with a plate containing a large sticky bun with a side of black grapes and a cup of Echidna's milk. She stretched out on the sofa again, propping herself up on one elbow. "I haven't eaten yet," she explained, taking a large gooey bite out of the bun.

Neither had Drake, but that wasn't important. He'd sat down on the floor of his cage, his knees to his chest, his tail curled around his toes. He stared at Salome as only one of the truly miffed can. "What are you _doing_ here anyway? My soldiers were supposed to empty the camp."

Salome sipped her milk. "I didn't hear them attack. I was in the shower, of course."

"Well -don't you think you should go help Lord Zetta's forces?"

"No," Salome replied easily. "They'll be fine. Besides, I'm rather enjoying having nothing to do this morning." She put a grape between her teeth and bisected it with a soft popping sound.

Drake clamped his arms around his knees to muffle his growling innards. "Well, how hunky-dory. And where would Lord Zetta be?"

"He and his personal platoon are further south, I think. We've been trying for weeks to steal the Onyx of Devastation from this local shrine. It's worshipped by a tribe of cannibal zombies."

"Such a shame you didn't go with him."

Salome smiled good-naturedly. "I'm still recovering from yesterday's battle. I was... a little overeager with my Mana. Zetta insisted I sit the morning out."

"Hmph." Drake glared balefully around the clearing. "But you took the time to install a Mana-nulling cage."

Salome ate another grape. "No, we always have at least one above the entrance of every tent. It makes us feel secure."

"Whoop-de-do."

There was a large rumbling.

"Was that your stomach?"

"Eh..." said Drake weakly.

Salome sat upright, frowning. "Maybe I _should_ feed my pet gerbil."

"I AM NOT A GERBIL!"

"Well, if you're not my pet gerbil, I don't need to feed you."

After a mighty struggle, Drake swallowed his pride (not that it eased the hunger pangs). "What ...sort of sound does a gerbil make?"

Salome didn't even hesitate. "Meep meep."

Drake cleared his throat. "Meep. Meep."

"Ah!" Salome exclaimed, sounding delightfully surprised. "It _is_ a gerbil!" She stood up, holding the plate of food in her hands. More than half of the sticky bun was still there as well as several grapes. "Is it an intelligent gerbil?"

Drake unclenched his throat. "Oh, yes. Meep. Ahhrm, meep."

Salome stepped up to the bars of the cage. Drake leapt to his feet. He would've liked to throttle her, but even his wrists were too thick to pass through the bars. A pity his tail wasn't prehensile.

"Can the gerbil do tricks?"

Drake gritted his teeth. "Of course." He stood on one foot.

Salome frowned. "That's not a very good trick."

"Wait -uh...um..." Rearranging himself a bit, Drake managed a handstand.

"Hmm," Salome said consideringly. "Can you pat your head and rub your stomach now?"

"Of course not!"

"Well, then I'll just have to teach you a new trick." She snapped her fingers. "On your feet."

The gerbil got to his feet.

Salome pulled a wodge of sticky bun free. "Now, lean forward and tilt your chin up."

Drake did so, bringing him closer to the plate. Salome's slim hand reached through the bars...

...and placed the wodge on his nose.

"Don't move."

"Eh-"

"No speaking! If you spill the food, you don't get any."

Drake's nostrils flared, breathing in the cinnamony dough and the sugary frosting.

"Now, a grape..." Salome went on.

What was she thinking? He'd never be able to balance a grape! She was setting him up for failure, the hussy-

Five minutes later, a battle-happy Lord Zetta strode into his empty camp and wondered what the heck was up. He stomped across the mud to the center and only stopped when he saw that one of the Mana-nulling cages had been deployed. And-

Drake had really amazed himself. Not even he, with his rather exalted view of self, could've imagined that he was able to balance six grapes and ten cinnamon bun wodges all on his nose. Salome had simply run out of food and was carefully levitating her Nixie cup of Echidna's milk to the top of the food tower when she heard the stomps.

Of course Salome whirled. Of course all the milk went splashing all over Drake. Of course he dropped the food. Of course he was marginally happy, because now all the food was HIS.

Zetta frowned in puzzlement at the caged lion. "What's up?"

"I found him this morning," Salome replied, crossing over to him, "in my tent, and-"

Zetta shook his head. Firmly. "Absolutely not, Salome."

"Zetta-"

"No. You already have too many pets as it is. There are those two sentient scrub brushes -and the orange dragon -and the wolverines-"

Salome wound her arms around her Overlord's waist and looked up at him beseechingly. Meaning, her eyes went all wide and pretty.

Zetta concentrated on Stern Thoughts. "No," he said again.

Salome decided to let it go (after all, she still had the wolverines). She kissed Zetta's cheek. "How did it go?"

"Well...my professor discovered twenty-three new species of flesh-eating trees."

Salome frowned. "Is that good news or bad?"

"It depends on whether or not I can manage to recruit a few and how quickly they reproduce. Anyway, did you find the-"

"TERRIBLE SHALL BE MY WRATH," a voice roared from the cage, "IF YOU DON'T FREE ME AT ONCE!"

Zetta's eyes widened and narrowed sharply as he stared over Salome's shoulder at the cage. "You didn't tell me it could talk."

Salome also regarded the cage and its milky occupant. "It's not very clever, but yes, it can talk."

The milky occupant had made a fist out of its right paw, and that paw was shaking with rage. "I tell you, Zetta -This is it! Provoke me further, and I won't answer for the devastating consequences!"

Zetta's eyes rounded. "Magog," he said, pleasure creeping into his voice. "It's Drake the Third."

Salome glared at him. "What? You told me he was a lion."

"Uh...Isn't he a lion?"

"Of course I'm a lion!" Drake thundered, glad this was finally going to be cleared up.

"Oh please," Salome replied. "You're a lion like tofu is a food."

"_Tofu_?" Drake repeated.

"Well," Zetta amended, stepping past Salome towards the cage, "maybe I was wrong about his species. But that's definitely King Drake." He came to a halt not three feet from his rival Overlord, arms crossed over his chest, long black cape unfurling behind him. "So, King Dreck, what brings you to my camp?"

Drake considered his options. "I came here to lend you my assistance in your quest for the Onyx of Devastation. I arrived here with men and provisions, but your little hussy trapped me in this cage and has been torturing me for the last hour!"

Zetta glanced sidelong at Salome. She put a hand on her hip. "I found him in my room, going through my clothes."

Zetta whirled on Drake, rage blazing in his eyes. "What the hell? What do you think you're up to, you sad excuse for a bastard?"

Drake gritted his teeth with pure loathing. "I wasn't -there wasn't anything perverse about-"

"He was stealing from us," Salome went on.

"What'd he take?" Zetta growled. Salome thumbed in the direction of the wheelbarrow. Zetta strode over. "Hmph. Would you look at this? He got all of your personal arsenal -spellbooks, daggers... He got your poison gas...Dart gun...He got-" Zetta's voice abruptly cut off. His eyes went wide as he withdrew an item from the wheelbarrow.

Zetta was a demon Overlord. Evil and depravity were his areas of expertise. The idea that a rival had come to steal his provisions came as no surprise. As a powerful demon, he'd be insulted by anything less. He expected maligning and malfeasance on a daily basis, but this...This was the work of absolute malevolence and corruption.

Zetta turned slowly in Drake's direction, the shimmery red towel in his hand. "Why," he breathed, "did you steal her nightgown?"

Salome gasped.

Drake examined the rungs on his cage. Nice. Strong. Sturdy. If he bashed his forehead against them quick, he'd probably go unconscious.

Salome glared at Drake out of narrowed eyes. "I didn't notice the nightgown."

Zetta dropped the nightgown and stalked back to his prisoner. "So. I'm going to have a lot of fun figuring out what to do with you."

"Oh?" Drake drew himself up. "Are you?"

"Oh yeah. I've been hard at work devising new torture chambers."

"Have you?"

Zetta leaned his elbows against the cage, smiling maliciously at Drake over his crossed arms. "Oh yeah. Tell me, Drake. Have you ever tried to relax in a living room that was completely upholstered in porcupine hide?"

Before Drake could conjure up a dazzling comeback, a short, sap-eyed medic named Sam came sloshing through the mud towards them. "Lord Zetta!"

Reluctantly, Zetta pulled his attention around. "_What_?"

"The cannibals are marching on the camp! They've crossed the Purple River!"

Zetta considered this. The cannibals had fewer than two miles to go. Glancing around, Zetta decided that his depleted garrison would have a pretty slim chance of defending the camp. However, an ambush in the swamp...

"Right," Zetta said decisively, pushing off the cage and striding towards Sam and Salome. He addressed the former. "Tell Q to have the troops ready at the Split Rock-"

"Er...Overlord, the Split Ruck sonk in the mank."

"What?"

Sam collected himself. "The Split Rock sank in the muck."

"Oh." With an effort, Zetta thought a bit harder. "Fine. Tell Q to prepare in the Thorn Grove." (Don't ask what a Thorn Grove was doing in the middle of a swamp.) "Tell her we'll be there shortly." Sam bowed quickly (so low that he actually nose-dived into the mud), then he spun around and was dashing off to report to Q, the leader of Zetta's personal platoon.

"Can I come?" Salome asked.

Zetta eyed her. "How you feel?"

She smiled. "I think I'd feel better if I sucked all of Drake's Mana."

Zetta grinned. "That'll come later. Here, I brought you back something from the last battle." From somewhere (probably a different dimension), Zetta withdrew a yard-long syringe. Its push end was adorned by a gleeful horned skull.

Salome's eyes rounded appreciatively as she took it from him. "I haven't gotten much use out of syringes yet."

"Exactly. I want to see what you can do with this. Go find something in the pharmacy to fill it with." Master and pupil smiled conspiratorally at each other, then Salome strode off for the pharmacy tent. In another moment, Zetta had turned and was stalking off in the opposite direction.

"Hey-!" said Drake. "Hey!"


	3. Wherein Zetta Imitates Will Turner

**3 **

Salome raised her eyebrows. "They look fierce."

Zetta nodded. "I'd say zombie cannibals are in a class by themselves." He regarded them a moment longer. "And they're Scottish. All that fiery Celtic blood, I guess."

The zombie cannibal MacAbre Clan was marching on the battlefield, matched step for step, bagpipes squealing, Smartin' Tartans flapping, and Bam N'Shatters proudly on their heads. Nobly they brandished their huge slaymore blades, others balancing plates of questionable haggis, and, in the rearguard, strode a genuine Messie Nessie Will-Not-Confessie-Even-Under-Duressie Loch Monster. Och, it was a dark day for puns.

Zetta's first order was for Q to shoot all six bagpipes. The bagpipes dribbled limply into the swamp muck, the pipes clattering together. As one, the MacAbres raised their weapons, demonstrating that they were not amenable to Zetta's musical prejudices.

The Clan Chief was shouting and brandishing a cookbook, pointing markedly at Zetta, then the page he was opened to. There was quite a distance between the forces, so Zetta's company could only just barely hear him: "Bread lightly... cook at 350 degrees...baste on other side...serves sixteen..."

Zetta filled his lungs with air. "You don't have a Scottish accent!"

There was a pause while the Clan Chief glanced at his compatriots. "...not really Scottish...ordinary zombie cannibals."

"What?"

"All an act...Just thought...MacAbre...a funny surname."

"Oh hell," said Zetta to Salome.

"Always...wanted a pet...loch monster..."

"Let's make this quick."

Salome smiled. "Ah, not _too _quick."

"Loch monster's name...is Cummerbund..."

Zetta relayed his orders with the crisp precision of a veteran oppressor. Q smiled and led the soldiers into the first assault. Zetta and Salome held back initially, the former overseeing the fight, the latter doing stretches at a barre she'd conjured up..

Zetta had not underestimated his opponents. Genuine Scotsmen or not, they were zombie cannibals, and even Zetta's highly trained elite were struggling against them. Zetta smiled, well pleased with the challenge. He drew the Zetta Sword and rotated his shoulders, loosening up. Salome completed one more stretch and removed her leg warmers.

The chief of the MacAbre Clan (who was named Snivly) blasted away four of Zetta's fighters; they crashed into various thorn bushes and whimpered slightly, waiting for Sam the medic to get his backside over. Zetta nodded and floated forward, not about to get his shiny black boots all muddy. Salome followed.

"Aha!" said Snivly. At close range, his total lack of a Scottish accent was even more apparent. "Finally you've joined the party, Lord Zetta. Just in time for dinner." He waved the cookbook again.

Zetta laughed. "Eat mud, little cannibals! What makes you think you can take down me, Lord Zetta, the most badass up-and-coming Overlord in the cosmos?"

Snivly pondered this. "Well, we're a bunch of Scotsman-impersonating zombie cannibals. How can that not be more interesting than a scrawny guy in leather with puffy hair?"

Zetta's puffy hair surged out in all directions, writhing and crackling with rage. "_Scrawny?_"

"Besides," Snivly continued complacently, "we've got theme music."

Zetta's hair, momentarily distracted, calmed down a bit. "Theme music? I don't hear any."

Snivly sighed. "We forgot to turn it on..._again_... Cummerbund, where's the boombox?"

Cummerbund was still in the back, sitting on Q's head. He blushed a pretty mauve and hastily withdrew a boombox, clicking it on with one flipper.

Instantly, the battlefield was filled with battle music.

"Ha HA!" said Snivly. "See that: we've got theme music, and you don't. That obviously means we're more significant than you."

"What the-?" spluttered Zetta.

"Mmmhm," said Snivly, "if you were more important, they would've given you theme music, but they didn't, which means you're probably going to die, and then we'll cook you up in this lovely sauce that involves garlic and cloves and-"

"I don't-" Zetta gasped. "I don't believe this! When did they hand out theme music?"

Snivly guffawed. "Yes, Zetta, the defining characteristic of any important character is his theme music, often with varying arrangements, all included on the OSV of the game's soundtrack. A department where you, my friend, are shamefully lacking!"

"I-" Zetta cast about furiously, as if hoping he'd find his theme music lying in a corner of the battlefield.

"So bow down, Lord Zetta," exclaimed his opponent, "before the might of Chief Snivly and his Zombie Cannibals of Devastation (with a tasteful and polite Loch Lich in the rearguard) and humbly submit to-"

"Wait a minute," said Salome, "that's the theme music from _Pirates of the Caribbean_."

There was a brief silence while they all listened to the theme music and a few zombie parts went flying.

"Eh..." said Snivly. "Ye-es, I suppose that, if you want to be a purist, it is..."

"HA!" exulted Zetta. "You don't have any more theme music than I do! Your little plaid-loving haggis-orgy cult is going down!"

Salome smiled. "Magog, I love this movie."

Zetta was taken aback. "What the hell? You do?"

"Well, the first one at least."

"I thought they both sucked."

Salome was aghast. "Do you really mean that?"

"Um," said Snivly.

"The wimpy little pretty boy won out in the end," Zetta elaborated, gesturing with his sword for emphasis. "The one with the eyes and the hair. And the nose. Him. That little naïf's not a pirate, he's a poster boy for bishi-"

"What? You let Will Turner spoil the movie for you?"

"The fake British accent got on my nerves. 'Elizzabuth! I haftu save Miss Swann!' I don't know."

Salome crossed her arms. "Well, what about Jack Sparrow? Can you really say you hate Jack Sparrow?"

"Well-" said Snivly.

"That chump's wearing eye make-up!" Zetta expostulated. "You expect me to take him seriously?"

"So anyway-" Snivly tried.

Salome raised an eyebrow. "_You're_ wearing eye make-up."

An icy rage came over Zetta. "Salome," he said in a deep, smoldering voice, "they're tattoos, and you know it."

There was an electric pause between master and disciple. One of Zetta's swordwomen beheaded a zombie, and its head arced gracefully between them, landing with a splut at Snivly's feet.

Salome sighed. "I just can't believe you don't like that movie."

Snivly cleared his throat. "World. Take-over. Me. Yup. You: dinner. Okay? All clear on that?"

Zetta launched his body into a back-flip, coming down sword-first into Snivly. As Zetta swung back into the air, Snivly hastily re-stitched himself back together. The theme from _Pirates of the Caribbean_ looped around and started all over again.

Salome angled her syringe up and dove down into the far side of the battlefield. For a while, all was shouts and bags and shredded plaid flying which-way. The MacAbre Clan put up a mighty fight, and Zetta and Snivly were still hacking away at each other's vital organs when the CD in the boombox skipped, and the battle music was suddenly replaced with Beethoven's Fifth.

Zetta and Snivly looked at each other.

"Da-da-da-**DUN**," said the boombox.

Snivly swung his slaymore. Zetta parried it, sparks exploding between them. Snivly conjured a raging fireball. Zetta punched it aside. Snivly started singing "I'll take the high road, and you'll take the low road." The CD skipped again, now playing "In the Hall of the Mountain King".

Zetta kicked Snivly in the chest. Snivly went shooting backwards, landing three feet deep in the muck. Zetta did a victory jig midair. Snivly extracted himself with a loud SHWOK! sound. Zetta did a double take. Snivly launched himself upwards, his fist connecting with Zetta's nose. Zetta recoiled into a perfect somersault. Snivly laughed so hard he had to hold his belly. Zetta clutched his nose, howling with pain. The CD skipped to "Duel of the Fates" from _The Phantom Menace_.

Snivly's eyes glittered with rage. Zetta bared his teeth, fangs glinting in the sunlight. Far away in Zetta's camp, King Drake had found a stick and was playing tic-tac-toe with himself on the cage floor. Moncharmin had passed out in Zetta's bed, Pepe had finally finished color-coding Zetta's collection of katars, and Apollo was trying on Zetta's best-occasion socks. And the CD skipped to Tchaikovsky's "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy".

"It's over, Lord Zetta," Snivly MacAbre said, breathing heavily. "The time of the demon is at an end. A new era of Overlords is rising -plaid and bloodthirsty!"

"Die, thou cadaverous Caledonian anthropophage!" Zetta seethed. "And bow before the Overlord of Overlords, Despot of Despots, Crown Prince of Badassery-"

"Zetta?" Salome asked.

Zetta stabbed Snivly through the heart. Snivly expired and felt to the ground as limply as a soggy mitten. "Yeah?"

The warriors of the MacAbre Clan, seeing their fallen leader, debated whether to call the mortician or the chef.

"Cummerbund's surrendering. I just wondered if-"

"Salome, we've already been through this: you have _enough_ pets."

Salome sighed.

Zetta turned back to the warriors who were approaching Snivly's corpse, several tying on bibs. "Besides, you living-dead psychos aren't bad. How'd you like to be my vassals? I'll reincarnate all of you." _And then you'll take me to your Onyx of Destruction. Hyaaa hahahahaha!_ Zetta cleared his throat and attempted to look nonchalant.

Snivly miraculously lifted his head. "Really?"

Zetta shrugged. "Sure, I can always use more undead minions."

All the fallen warriors of the MacAbre Clan universally leapt to their feet and started exchanging high-fives. The CD player skipped to "Ode to Joy".


	4. Wherein Zetta Swears a Good Deal

**4**

"No. I didn't see enough wincing, Salome!"

"Zetta, they're zombies. How much can zombies wince?"

One of the MacAbre zombies happened to pass just then. Without even looking, Zetta stabbed it clear to the hilt of his sword. The zombie grimaced, gurgled, and toppled over. "_That's_ how a zombie can wince. And that's what I want to see." He relieved Salome of her syringe and examined it. "A bigger needle, that'll do it. These twelve-inchers just aren't enough."

Zetta gave the camp a cursory glance. When he, Salome, his private platoon and the newly-converted MacAbre Clan had arrived, it was still empty. This, to Zetta's mind, wasn't just Sucky and Inconvenient. It wasn't even just Not Good. This went all the way to Disconcerting and Downright Irritating. It could only mean one of two things:

a) His army, still out in the swamp, had been wasted by Drake's soldiers.

b) His army had shellacked Drake's troops and was now attempting to make a break for it.

Well, whichever was the problem, they both had the same remedy. Zetta whipped around. "Q!"

The professor strode towards him, her combat boots splashing in the mud. Zetta didn't spare any words. "Find out what's happened to the other units. If their asses are getting baked, help them out. If they're beating feet out of here, bake their asses."

Q smiled, happy that both instructions shared a singularly appealing turn of phrase. Within minutes, Zetta's unit had left. Zetta turned to the MacAbre Clan. "Find something useful to do. I've got a prisoner to entertain."

oOoOoOoOo

Drake, much bored by this hour, was lapping up the rest of his spilled milk when Zetta and Salome rejoined him at the Mana-nulling cage. He quickly got his tongue back into his mouth and stood up. "Aha," he said cheerily. "You're back! Had your fun, didn't you? Oh, it does my heart good to see you little ones enjoying yourselves. Now then, why don't you let Uncle Drake out and let him show you some new fighting moves?"

Zetta and Salome looked at each other.

"Come now, Zetta," Drake chided. "Aren't you always harping about how you're going to be the strongest Overlord? Ahhrm, you won't get far if you ignore the wisdom of your elders."

Zetta cleared his throat. "Salome. Rule number 67904: any tips that come from your enemy aren't worth taking."

Salome pursed her lips. "What about when he's monologuing? You know, when he's about to kill you, but he first takes the time to tell you why he's doing all these evil things."

"True. But that usually doesn't involve him being in a cage."

With a superfeline effort, Drake maintained his bracing demeanor. "Why, Zetta... You've come so far, haven't you? I am proud. Sometimes, I even think of you as the son I still don't have. Oh, how I remember when you were a toddler, your mummy would bring you to the Overlord conventions and-"

Zetta cleared his throat even harder. "Now then, I believe I was telling you about the new torture chambers I've designed-"

"No, wait," Salome interrupted. "Let him go on. What was Zetta like as a child, Drake?"

"Wait a minute," Zetta said, hair beginning to spark.

"Oh," Drake chuckled. "Not much different. Only with a smaller vocabulary."

"If you want to live to have a real son," Zetta suggested, drawing his sword, "you should-"

"He had a bit of a lisp, though," Drake recalled. "And he used to pronounce his _l_s as _y_s."

Fire danced across Zetta's sword. "You really want to piss me off, house cat?"

Drake roared with laughter. "Funny you should use that particular phrase. I remember one time you were sitting in Babylon's lap, and you-"

WHAM!

Drake blinked. Stared once. Stared twice. And then he really, really laughed.

Zetta and Salome cast about in bewilderment, withdrew their weapons.

"Magog!" Zetta swore.

A Mana-nulling cage had dropped around the two of them.

oOoOoOoOo

"Two-hunred twenny-fo... two-hunred twenny-fife... two-hunred twenny -siss..."

With that, Pepe, who had been counting Zetta's collection of blowdarts (in designer colors), toppled over, exhausted. In a short moment, his snoring joined that of Moncharmin, curled up under Zetta's coverlet, and Apollo, sprawled on Zetta's beanbag chair wearing Zetta's favorite clementine-colored pajamas. Thus, they were lulled into contented slumber, completely oblivious to the outraged shouts and raucous laughter emanating from outside.

oOoOoOoOo

Zetta and Salome wheeled around their small confines, fruitlessly scrabbling for a way out when they weren't bumping into each other. The third time, Zetta's ear poked Salome in the eye, and both were forced to calm down for a moment while Salome sorted herself out. By then, Drake had collapsed, thoroughly worn out with guffawing, only able to weakly hold his quivering stomach and emit the occasional snicker.

Zetta, after ascertaining that he hadn't blinded his apprentice, rounded on the Gerbil Overlord. "You! How the hell did a nimrod like you deploy the cage? There isn't any remote control! And you can't use any Mana!"

Drake hiccuped and wiped his streaming eyes. "Oh -ho! I -only wish!"

"You mean you didn't?" Zetta's hair blazed with outrage. Salome yelped with pain. Zetta apologized, then started to pace, as much as the cage would let him. Meaning that he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "If you didn't rig the cage...who did?"

"I'll take the highroad, and ye'll take the low road, and I'll get the onyx before ye!" a decidedly un-Scottish voice sang. Zetta and Salome whirled in perfect synchrony, which was the only thing that saved them from another collision. Snivly MacAbre waved three cheery fingers from the other side of the bars. "I tell you, those controls are _very _easy to figure out."

"You bastard!"

Snivly shook his head ruefully. "Is that the best you can do? Impugn my parents' good names? Come now, I thought a_ real _Overlord would have something clever up his sleeve."

"This Overlord," Zetta promised, "is going to have all ten fingers around your neck!"

The zombie chief laughed, dislodging several teeth. He spoke as he bent and fished them out of the swamp muck. "I somehow doubt that, seeing as you're stuck in a cage, and I have access to your martial resources." He carefully screwed each tooth back into his gums.

Zetta slammed his fists against the rungs of the cage which, in its own way, was passably impressive. It didn't do him any good.

Snivly chuckled. "What's wrong with you? Most demons would be jumping for joy to be locked in a small cage with a curvy blonde." He studied Zetta a moment. "You're not a eunuch, are you?"

Salome had backed as far away from Zetta as was humanly possible, afraid that, any moment now, her beloved master would spontaneously combust. Zetta's hair was a roaring bonfire at this point, and the wind vortex that usually followed him had escalated into a small tornado, whipping his cape every which-way. He was literally shedding sparks and small puffs of brimstone as he attempted to break the bars with his teeth.

"That's some cheek," Snivly was saying. "What I'd call hubris. Thinking you could convert us into helping you steal _our _Onyx of Devastation. I don't think so. The nerve. Maybe if you'd had some theme music, I would've considered it, but...no, absolutely not. By the way, will you be wanting me to make an appointment with your dentist? I don't believe I see a hellephone in there."

Drake cleared his throat. "Hey there, my good zombie friend." Snivly raised an eyebrow. "I'm well-acquainted with Zetta's camp by now. Perhaps you'd like some assistance finding the best weapons?"

"Damn you, Drake," Zetta seethed. "Damn you to heaven and back!"

Drake looked shocked. "Zetta! I can't believe it! I'd rather see you dead at my feet than using such dreadful language."

Snivly chuckled again. "Well, the way things are going, you probably _will_ see him dead at your feet. But no, I don't have any use for a talking wombat. Now then, this is quite a big camp, so I'll have to take a bit of time looking it over. See you in a bit."

"_Wombat_?" Drake repeated, outraged.

"Come back here, you walking heap of flea-bitten bones!" Zetta roared.

But, with a last swirl of his kilt, Snivly MacAbre was gone.

Zetta stood, breathing hard, staring at the rungs of his cage. He was remembering the first time he'd seen them -new, fresh off the assembly line. "Quality, top of the line Mana-nulling iron," his scientists had told him. "_And_ coated with anti-rust protection. These would hold Overlord Baal himself."

"Shut up!" Salome shouted at Drake who, having got over the wombat remark, was jiggling with suppressed laughter. "You aren't in a better position."

Drake tittered. "I don't know...I have leg room."

"Pity you won't have legs for very long," Zetta remarked, not turning.

Salome took a half-shuffle towards Zetta as the only pretense of speaking to him privately. "There's really no escape function?"

"Of course not," Zetta growled.

"And where's the mechanism?"

"Back behind my tent." Zetta took a deep breath. "Damn. I should have hacked those zombies into stew meat."

Salome stared at her feet, thinking. "Well... then all we can do is wait for the army to get back."

Zetta glowered.

Salome touched his arm. "Q can handle it."

"It's not that," Zetta groused. "This is not a position vassals should see their Overlord in!"

Salome shrugged. "Then we'll just kill them once they free us."

"_If _they free us," Zetta retorted. He bared his teeth. "I don't know. There are some pretty loose cannons in my ranks. Extremists who want salaries, of all things, and insurance for their families. I may have to do some bargaining."

"And then we kill them," Salome repeated.

Zetta turned to her. "Not that easy. I don't think you and I are strong enough to take down the entire MacAbre Clan."

Uncertainty flickered in Salome's eyes. "Maybe not..."

Drake cleared his throat. "Well, Zetta, hope may not be lost...if you play your cards right."

Zetta turned back to the bars, exhaling in frustration. "Dammit! If only he hadn't nabbed both of us!"

Drake cleared his throat again. "I can help you, Zetta. I can save both you and your little chica there. Come now, is any number of material goods worth as much as your lives? I don't think so."

"And he'll be able to attack us from the outside," Zetta went on, his voice rising with tension. "I don't think we have a single way to defend ourselves."

Salome bit her lower lip, trying hard to remain calm. "Maybe if we...played dead?"

Drake reached under his crown, fished out a throat lozenge, and cleared his throat one more time. "Yes, Zetta, your salvation is at hand! All it takes is one little magic word-"

"Silence!" Zetta roared. "What the hell sort of plan do _you_ have?"

"Uh..." Drake tapped one bootied-foot for a moment, then smiled. "It's a secret. You'll have to say please first."

Zetta turned away from his rival Overlord with disgust. He kicked the side of the cage, then slid into a sitting position, his knees practically under his chin. Trying not to show any of her own despair, Salome joined him. After a moment, she slipped both arms around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder, silently saying that she would stay with him no matter what happened.

The tender gesture did not have the desired effect, as Zetta vented his frustration by swearing for ten minutes straight, referring not only to King Drake and Snivly MacAbre, but to the manufacturers of Mana-nulling cages, the Creator of swamps, The One, the Onyx of Devastation, zombies who didn't realize that everyone wanted them to stay in their graves, upstart Overlords who didn't mind their own business, Overlord Baal, and plaid. When a clap of thunder broke overhead and rain began to splash the sides of the cages, splattering the occupants with mud, Zetta decided it was about time to shut up.


	5. Wherein a Ladybug Rises

_Author's Note: It's a much-loved gambit, but my inspiration for the Voice of Conscience comes from the story "The Princess and the Hedge-pig" by E. Nesbit._

**5**

Even the heat of Drake's fulminating wasn't sufficient to warm him in the cold downpour. The camp had turned into swamp soup, freezing sludge splashing over him. Night had long since fallen, but the surroundings were lit by the sulfurous glow of the camp lanterns. Drake glared balefully at the other cage. Zetta and Salome had long since ceased complaining. Still squinched into uncomfortable sitting positions, they'd wrapped their arms around each other and were, if not actually asleep, pretending.

Drake, in all honesty, didn't have much more leg room either, but he managed to lie down by bracing his legs upwards against the side of the cage. Staring up at his feet thus, Drake contemplated his extremely bad luck. The day had started off so well, him taking advantage of Zetta's absence, robbing him blind. Then, the Mana-nulling cage had descended and, with it, doom. He thought long and tender thoughts about his own Netherworld, his cozy little castle with his cozy little feather bed. He wondered if his wife was worried, or if she were busy making goo-goo eyes at the throne-duster. Hmph, he was going to hire a new throne-duster the minute he got home.

Salome was not asleep. She was thinking about sweaters. This wasn't because she was a fluff-headed blonde who spent all her time thinking about shopping, it was because she was freezing cold. One reason she had snuggled up to Zetta was to keep warm, and while snuggling was very nice, there wasn't anything warm about sitting next to a person in muddy wet leather. She very much wished she had decided not to wear the sexy strapless red dress and had picked something more appropriate, such as a snowsuit. A big snowsuit. Stuffed with vulture down. With thick socks and ear muffs and mittens. Salome nestled closer to Zetta and sighed, falling asleep as she contemplated the virtues of mittens.

Zetta was not asleep either. He had long since run out of swear words, even mentally, having exhausted every language and dialect he'd ever heard of. He had a curvy blonde in his arms, and one of his biggest rivals was in a cage next to his, but he was thinking about neither of them. Cannibal zombies wearing plaid might be the most unattractive subject on the face of the earth, but that was the topic Zetta was devoting his entire attention to. More specifically, he was wondering how he could kill them while stuck in a cage that robbed him of all power.

Zetta sighed harshly. _That's not going to happen. I've got to get out of this cage. But how? I can't rearrange my molecules and slip through the bars. I can't teleport through -that requires Mana. What can I do that doesn't rely on Mana? Dammit! What happens now? Sure as hell those zombies will be back. I can't fight them. I can't protect Salome. Maybe Drake will start twaddling, and they'll use all their power killing him. Nah, Drake's too easy. What can I do? I'm going to be killed tomorrow by fake-Scottish zombies! I'll never be the strongest Overlord! All my hard work -Salome-_

_Whoa, Salome's clammy. This is like cuddling a wet prinny. Only thinner. And I've never cuddled a prinny before._

_Come on, Zetta, focus! What can you do that doesn't require Mana?_

In 1306, Robert the Bruce, who actually was a Scotsman, was being sorely whupped in his own country by the English just because too many people wanted to be king all at once. Robert (or Rob, if you'd prefer; or maybe even Bobby or Brucie) was holed up in a cave, glum because he'd just lost a battle and his family had been taken prisoner. It really stunk. It's cold in Scotland, especially in the caves, and it was probably raining that day. Rob had forgotten his pillow at home and hadn't washed his hair in six months. He had a blister on his heel, and there wasn't any hot haggis, just cold six-days-old stuff. He was also going to die in twenty-three short years, perhaps of leprosy, or several strokes, or syphilis, but at least he didn't know that much. Nevertheless, he was very depressed and just didn't know how he could continue his warmongering and become the King of Scotland.

And as Rob was sitting there in the cave, he saw a spider. For any sane person, this would have made the situation twenty times worse, but Rob lived in the Middle Ages, and very few people were sane then. So Rob sat and watched this spider try to spin a web. And this spider (let's call her Sylvia) wasn't very good at making webs. She tried and tried, over and over again, to make a decent little web, but she kept messing up, falling down, slipping. It was pathetic. But Sylvia kept on trying. And then, finally, on the eighth try, Sylvia succeeded in making a web, a beautiful web, a glorious web. And Rob had an epiphany. He realized that if a creature as lowly as a spider could persevere and achieve her goal and create a thing of symmetry and grace, then that meant the English were a bunch of wimpy ninnies and he, Rob, could definitely pwnz them all and become king. And thus did Rob gain new resolve and set forth to become king of Scotland (which he eventually did). It obviously never occurred to him that Sylvia wasn't persistent, just thick-headed.

So anyway, Zetta the Brute... I mean, Lord Zetta was stuck in the cave -er, cage. His soul was a windswept wasteland and his world had been blown into smithereens around him. He was truly in the depths of despair. In fact, it wouldn't be till several centuries later when he had an ugly encounter with a book that he'd feel worse. He was seriously considering the sort of things his vassals would be writing on his tombstone when he noticed a ladybug climbing up one of the rungs of the cage.

_Stupid bug. I'll squish it._

But as his thumb was closing in for the kill, the ladybug nimbly scooted out of the way and continued its ascent.

Zetta glowered up at it. _Just look at that. Bug walks up the side of the cage. An insignificant fancy beetle can go free, but I, the Great Zetta, can't. Damn._

_Wait a minute..._

Zetta cast his mind back to his younger years, when he'd been studying the basic history of Overlords. Hadn't he read about a special technique back then? A rare, life-saving, non-Mana-reliant technique?

Wait a minute, had he? Was he just making this up?

No, no, he _had!_ He remembered it now! Zetta stared up at the ladybug with new hope in his eyes. Yes -it was perfect -it was life -it was freedom!

And what's more, it was easy to remember.

Zetta took a deep breath, focusing his mind and energy on the scuttling ladybug. He didn't know what exactly would happen, but he knew it was his only chance.

Zetta filled his lungs with air.

"CONFINE!"

oOoOoOoOo

For Analise the ladybug, life was never quite the same again. One moment, there she was, getting rained on and dodging thumbs as she practiced her vertical climbing. The next thing she knew, there was a wrenching pain, and she felt something literally shove her soul out of her small body. With a soft popping sound, her soul was flying free, feeling quite bewildered and naked. Looking back, she saw her body, still on the rung. But was it still her body? Her tasteful black-on-red dots had been reversed, making her look a bit like a deformed black widow, and her wings were shooting off small puffs of flames. Her body was also engaged in a very enthusiastic victory dance, pumping her small fists into the air. Analise just couldn't believe it and instantly ran home to her mother, hoping she might have some ideas.

oOoOoOoOo

A normal person, upon realizing he had just successfully transported his soul out of his body and into that of an insect, might be alarmed, disturbed, or smacking himself in the forehead. Zetta, however, was quite happy just then to be a ladybug and continued his victory jig for a few more minutes, making sure to include some steps from the Electric Slide. That accomplished, he glanced down at his body (_Ah, stay put, you magnificent Temple of Badassery_) and buzzed off to find Snivly MacAbre and have a few...words with him.

Comfortable with flying from the age of six months, Zetta did find hurtling along horizontally a bit nerve-racking, especially with the raindrops sheering down around him like bombs. He rotated his little wings, banking at hairpin turns, about-faces and nose-dives in order to preserve his tenuous existence. Slowly, he realized that he had no idea what would happen if his bug-body was destroyed. Would his soul just go back to his body? Or...

Best not to think of that.

_All right, Snivly,_ Zetta growled mentally, _where's the bastard of the month?_

Zetta found him sitting with two other zombies and Cummerbund the Loch Lich. They had found some umbrellas in the camp and were sitting around a stone ring, striking a small fire so they could heat up a plate of chocolate-chip scones. Zetta briefly wondered what three lavender star-spangled umbrellas had been doing in his military camp before he ducked under one's ruffled edge. This brought him right by Snivly MacAbre himself, as he was picking his nose.

_Hyaaa ha,_ thought Zetta. _How about a nice sting under the chin, huh Snivly? Okay, gotta deploy the stinger. Stinger muscles...stinger muscles...damn, which muscles do I use to the deploy the stinger? Hm...nope, those are the back legs. Those are the wing-shields. Wait a minute -do ladybugs not have stingers? What the hell?!_

"So anyway," Snivly was saying, "the lion should do well in a light béarnaise sauce, and I've got this great apricot dressing earmarked for the blonde. I'm rethinking the whole garlic thing for the ex-Overlord though. That recipe's really fatty, you know, and some of us aren't as skeletal as good zombies should be."

"Aw," said one of the other zombies, who was quite chubby, "come on, do the garlic sauce. I bet that ex-Overlord doesn't have a lot of fat on him."

_Fine, I'll gnaw them with my mandibles. Mandibles: deploy!_

"Indeed," said the other zombie, who was wearing a monocle and a beret. "He's probably really gamey and stringy. We'll need to disguise the taste."

_...Mandibles? What the -no mandibles?!_

Snivly scratched his chin. "I think we'll stuff him, you know, with my grandma's stuffing. That will fill him out a bit."

_Who designed these bugs? I'm useless!_

"Oooo," said the fat one. "Look, Chief, by your head!"

_Huh?_

"Chief, it's a ladybird!"

_You calling me a bird?_

"Ladybird?" Snivly jerked around. "I don't see a bird. That's a bug."

_Damn straight._

The fat one gestured. "Or a ladybug. Same thing."

_Lady?_

"Oh," said Snivly, looking at Zetta with little interest.

_I'm in the body of a female? How am I supposed to know the difference?_

The monocled one cleared his throat. "Also referred to as a dowdy-cow."

_Dowdy...cow?_

"More correctly," Cummerbund murmured in a gentle British accent, "it is a member of the family Coccinellidae."

_DOWDY-COW?_

"Is it, uh, poisonous?" Snivly asked, not happy that Zetta was still buzzing right next to him.

"Oh yes," the monocled one said.

_Huh? Poisonous? Me?_ (Or, if you'd prefer the French translation:_ Hein? Toxique? Moi?_)

"As can be seen by the bright coloration," the monocled one continued. "Gaudiness is nature's way of shrieking 'Eat at your peril'."

_Sooooo... I'm poisonous, huh? Now that's something. I'll just mosy on over and leak poison all over-_

"Of course," Cummerbund said quietly, nibbling on the edge of a scone, "they're really only deadly to smaller creatures._ You'd_ have to eat several hundred ladybugs before you felt any ill effects."

_What the-_

_I-_

_I have to be eaten to be poisonous?_

_**DAMN!**_

The next thing Zetta thought was an even longer ream of expletives as Snivly irritably batted him aside. As Zetta went somersaulting through the air, furiously back-winging, he tried to find an advantage -any advantage- a small angry ladybug could have against an army of zombies. He couldn't remember reading anything remotely similar to this, hearing a story like it, or even seeing this sort of situation play out in a late night monster movie. For a moment, Zetta was hopeless. Then he remembered that his life, Salome's life, his Netherworld, and his badass reputation were all hanging on this. So he was hopeless and desperate.

Snivly stretched, his bones cracking and popping with cringe-inducing loudness. "Ah...Good work, my boys, good work. Defeating an Overlord with nary a shot fired. What's more, he's going to provide our victory banquet too. I always say that The One helps those who help themselves to exploiting any and every weakness their enemies leave open."

The other zombies nodded enthusiastic agreement. Cummerbund, however, looked down at his scone with a slight frown.

Snivly raised a ragged eyebrow. "Whatsa matter? You got a problem?"

"Oh..." said Cummerbund in the voice of one who wanted to say "Oh" and just leave it at that.

"Come on," Snivly said, a bit gruff. "Spit it out."

"I just wonder," Cummerbund said nonchalantly, shredding his scone between his flippers, "if we're...doing the right thing."

The zombies stared at him.

"The _right thing_?" Snivly spluttered. "The right th-! Cummerbund! Of course we're doing the right thing!"

Cummerbund squirmed, his natural blue hide tinged purple with embarrassment. "Well, I just...my conscience..."

"Poo!" said Snivly. Then, thinking up an even stronger argument, he said, "Pah!" He took a healthy bite of scone and spoke around it. "Nunna us haff consciences any more."

Cummerbund gazed off into the middle distance, his cheeks still purple. "You don't know that for sure."

"'Course I do," Snivly retorted. "If we had consciences, wouldn't they be bothering us now?"

"SnNivVvVLy," warbled a voice in his left ear.

Snivly jumped and smacked his head against the underside of the umbrella. "Whassat?"

Zetta, who'd almost tumbled off his seat in Snivly's earlobe, righted himself and cleared his throat. "SsSnNivly, it is I...your VOIce of cONscIENCE."

"Voice of-" Snivly repeated.

"Yes, you dumbass, your...ahem, VOICE of CONscience."

Snivly blinked in wonder, oblivious to the confused looks his compatriots were given him. "Is that really you? Hm. I thought you'd packed it off years ago."

"Uh," said the Voice of Conscience, "I was hibernating."

Snivly frowned. "I remember you with a deeper voice."

"I had plastic surgery on my noise."

"Did you now? Are you doing well?"

"NO!" blasted the Voice of Conscience, so loud it brought tears to Snivly's eyes. "I am _not_ doing well! Look at you, Snivly MacAbre!"

"Uh- what about me?"

"You're a thief! A plunderer! A kilt-kitted scavenger!"

"Ah, come on V of C, it's just a bit of-"

"Just a bit of what? How can you live with yourself, Snivly? Persecuting that majestic kickass tyrant, Lord Zetta?"

"Hey, hey," said Snivly, "since when are you a fanboy?"

"Just when he'd took you on as his vassal too. Do you realize he's your only ticket out of this swamp?"

"Well, if I kill him, I'll get his Mana, and then I'll have a spaceship built -plaid, of course- and I'll-"

"Snivly. Snivly," the Voice of Conscience said, sounding a bit like a middle-school principal that was chewing on rusty nails, "I'm saying these things for your own good. I'm trying to...help... you."

"Yeah," said Snivly. "Well, I think it's time for you to go back to hibernating."

"That's it," said the Voice of Conscience. "Now we're getting personal." Briefly, the Throat of Conscience was cleared. "What do you think -just what do you think- your mother would say?"

The rain drizzled away until it dissipated into mist. Light spread across the camp. Slowly, the swamp birds lifted their heads from under their wings and squawked to greet the dawn. Over at the two Mana-nulling cages, little had changed. King Drake the Third had curled himself into a geometrically perfect sphere and was sucking his big toe. In the other cage, Salome was still snuggled against her Overlord. As a shaft of sunlight smacked her left eyelid, her eyes fluttered open. She tried to stretch and saw it was impossible. Her heart grew heavy as she remember their predicament, how likely it was that they'd all be dead before noon.

Maybe Zetta had thought of something. Salome tilted her chin up and kissed his cheek. She whispered his name.

Silence.

_Still asleep,_ Salome thought. She leaned her head back against his chest. If they died, at least they would be together. At least they would have each other. Then she noticed a curious fact: Zetta's chest wasn't moving. Salome looked back up. There was no pulse in his throat. Touching his skin, she found it hard and cold.

Salome sat up and stared at Zetta's still body, her face white.


	6. Wherein Salome is Lachrymose

_Author's Abject Apology: Sorry for the long wait between updates. Thanks for bearing with me. Remember: The act of taking this story seriously is hazardous to one's health and liable to result in migraines, nosebleeds and/or nausea._

**6 **

Drake awoke to a strangled cry from the other cage. Peering between his eyelids, he saw that Salome had awakened. She seemed a bit upset. She was staring wide-eyed at the sleeping Lord Zetta, breathing hard. Drake grunted and attempted to roll into a sitting position. After he banged his head against the bars of the cage, he was more careful. "What's wrong with you?" he muttered, squirming upright. "Does his freakiness have morning breath?"

Salome's gaze shot around, all but pinning Drake to the bars of his cage. Drake massaged his throat gingerly, peering at those red eyes.

Salome was still breathing hard. Her mouth worked several times before she actually spoke, and her voice was uncharacteristically low. "What... did you do?"

Drake frowned. "Um...nothing?"

Salome looked quickly away. "Idiot. _You_ didn't do this."

Drake stared blankly at her. "Do what?"

Salome turned back to Zetta, seemed unable to speak. Nonplused, Drake also focused on Zetta. Nothing about him had changed during the night. He was still sitting there, head lolling back, tongue sticking out, closed eyes forming two Xs...

...Wait a minute.

Drake leaned forward. "He -he's not breathing." He shuffled through several mental files, sorting out all the implications. Then he yelped and drew back in horror. "Ohmygog! It's a corpse!" He backed as far away as he could. "Oh, good heavens!"

"SHUT UP!" Salome shouted.

Drake shivered. "Ugh. And you're _stuck_ in there with it. Ylech. Soon it will be bloated... turn black...start wriggling with worms..."

Salome didn't respond. After a moment, Drake realized her heavy breathing was partially-restrained sobbing. Salome stared unflinchingly at Zetta's corpse, gently touching his throat, as if checking again for a pulse. With a soft cry, she buried her face in his chest. "Damn them -what did those zombies do -kill them- Zetta-"

Drake watched this little tableau for a few seconds, then he crouched forward. "Uh, has rigor mortis set in yet?"

Salome extended her right hand, obviously about to blast Drake with some high-level spell. The cage prevented this, but bright coils of Mana still raced up and down the bars, giving Drake a severe case of static cling. Salome began to sob.

"I'm just saying," Drake just said, "that if he's good and stiff now, you might be able to use him to lever the cage apart. I'm pretty sure that if you got his head between two of the bars, you could bend them a bit."

Salome sat up quickly from Zetta's chest, tears slithering down both cheeks. "What?"

Seeing her interest, Drake's eyes lit up eagerly. "Yes, I'm sure it'll work. Stick his head all the way through so you can brace the bars against his ears, and then pull his legs towards-"

"Why would I want to go free?" Salome demanded.

There was a bit of silence.

"_What?_" said Drake, taking his turn.

Teeth bared, Salome gestured at the muddy camp. "There's nothing out there that I want. Without Zetta, I-" Her voice broke. "I -have nothing."

This concept was utterly foreign to Drake's sensibilities. "B-b-bu -we have to live! We have to get out of here!"

By way of answer, Salome leaned her head against Zetta's shoulder, put her arms around him and closed her eyes.

Drake stared at them, shaking his head slowly. "You'd rather sit here and let the zombies kill you?"

Salome opened her eyes.

Drake went on, picking up speed. "Sit here like, like - a penny on the train tracks? Like butter in the butter dish? Like free cookies at a daycare? Just waiting for the zombies to come gobble you up? I don't think so! Not us!" He pumped his fist. "Come on, Salome, you and I can get out of this!"

Salome had lifted her head but continued to look dubious.

Drake was now pressing his face against the bars of the cage. "Salome -think of Zetta-"

Salome caught a sob in her throat.

"Would Zetta want you, his beloved, darling, er, pretty apprentice to be snarfed up by those zombies? No, he'd want you to-"

"You're right," Salome said softly. She cupped her palm against Zetta's cheek. "He wouldn't want me to die a victim."

"Absolutely not," Drake said bracingly, his tail whipping happily with newborn hope.

"So..." Salome straightened. "If I have to...If I have to die..."

Drake's tail stopped whipping.

From nowhere, Salome withdrew a thirteen-inch long steel knife. "...I won't let _them_ kill me."

oOoOoOoOo

"And do you know what _else_ your mother would say?" the Voice of Conscience snarled. "She'd say her son was a leaky-nosed, turkey-brained, face-stuffing fatass with no fashion sense who can only get along in life by feeding like a vulture off of the resources of OTHERS! When have you ever done anything on your own, you delinquent? All you do is steal from others! All you do is eat others! All you do is loll around on your plaid ass and-"

"You're no Voice of Conscience," Snivly whimpered, curled into the shape of a croissant and resisting the impulse to suck his thumb. "You're a freaking super-ego."

"Don't try to distract me with Freud, little zombie!" roared the Voice of Conscience. "Psychoanalyze THIS: did you ever wonder why your mother named you Snivly?"

Snivly bit his lower lip and tried not to cry.

"It's because you snivel! Yes, Snivly the sniveler! How's that? You can't even stand up on your own two metatarsi and be a man! No, you hide behind a Loch Lich and hoard a slag of volcanic rock you call the Onyx of Devastation-"

"Onyx is a type of quartz," Snivly snuffled weakly. "Volcanic rock would be obsidian."

"And," the Voice of Conscience raged, "you dare to correct your Voice of Conscience! Hah! If you know so much, then what do you need me for? Huh, _Snivly_?"

Snivly, blinking tears out of his eyes, turned to the Loch Lich. "Cummerbund...what are...metatarsi?"

"Hah!" the Voice of Conscience blazed. "You have much worse things than metatarsi to worry about!"

Cummerbund was staring fixedly at Snivly MacAbre, as were the fat zombie and the monocled zombie. From what they could tell, their chieftain had an imaginary friend named Voice of Conscience who was dishing out verbal punishment by the boatload. An imaginary friend Snivly seemed unable to stop. An imaginary friend who, apparently, had a mind for trivia. Cummerbund raised an eyebrow. "Metatarsi are your foot bones."

"Yeah," the Voice of Conscience growled in Snivly's left ear. "Didn't you ever take biology in junior high? I'm gonna have to take you back to school, little Snivels. Gonna teach you a thing or two, if you don't wise up."

Snivly gulped, tears rolling down his hollow cheeks.

"Listen to the Loch Monster, Snivly," the Voice of Conscience said, voice dropping to a threatening murmur. "Listen good: We Voices of Conscience, we're the real thing. We're still here, baby. Piss us off, and we make you pay. Little Loch Lich says his conscience is bothering him? Well, I'll do more than bother _you_, Snivly. I'll bring you down -flat- like a squirrel during rush-hour. I'll make you cave in like a sand castle at high tide. You'll weep like a canon purist on a fanfiction website. And _then_ we'll talk about what your mom thinks about your girlfriend."

Snivly took a deep shuddering breath. "What do I -what do I gotta do?"

The Voice of Conscience seemed taken aback for a few moments, almost as though it had been so caught up in its smack-fest that it had forgotten what it wanted Snivly to accomplish. "Right. Yeah. Uh, to get rid of me, you have to go back to the Mana-nulling cage and release Lord Zetta and his apprentice."

Snivly rubbed his chin. "Can I kill them first?"

"NO!" Flames blazed out of Snivly's left ear.

Snivly winced. "Those -are good lungs you got. Do you sing opera?"

"Do I _sound_ like I sing opera?"

"Well...you do, actually."

That shut up the Voice of Conscience like nothing else could.

Snivly got unsteadily to his metatarsi. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders. "All...right. All right. I'll...go free them. I will."

Zetta sat up from where he'd been lounging against the inside of Snivly's left earlobe. "Really?" He threw his little bug-hands into the air. He did a high-kick and a slide. He shook his buggy booty. Then he congratulated himself. In the interests of establishing a unified global community, _The Exultation of Zetta_ has been provided in various languages:

French: "Merveilleux!"

Spanish: "Espléndido!"

Arabic: "Mumtaaz!"

Esperanto: "Mirinda!"

Latin: "Mirificus!"

Greek: "Thaumastos!"

Etruscan: "Mulx!"

Ninth Grader: "Sweeeeeet!"

English: "Whee."

Zetta felt pretty good.

In other news, Drake didn't feel good at all. And Salome felt just awful.


	7. Wherein a Dowdycow Descends

**7 **

"No!" Drake thundered, chest heaving with passion. "I won't let you kill yourself!"

"Don't try to stop me," Salome said, voice harsh. "I have nothing left to live for." Taking the long knife in her right hand, she set its tip against her heart.

"No!" Drake strained towards her, eyes dilated, reaching through the bars of the cage to grasp her. "Salome -don't-"

With a sigh, Salome removed the knife from her skin and cupped her hand over its tip. Confused, Drake stopped shouting, though his fingers kept clutching and unclutching. Salome glanced at him. "This thing's really cold. Just going to warm it up first." She blew on the tip a few times. "Okay." She set back against her heart.

Drake gasped. "Salome! I- I can't live without you!"

That brought Salome up short. Instead of applying pressure to the knife, she looked up. "Since when?"

Drake's mouth worked soundlessly.

Salome backed a bit closer to Zetta's corpse and reaffirmed her grip on the hilt. If Drake was about to start spouting declarations of love, she didn't want to hear them.

"Since right now," Drake expostulated impatiently. "Salome -you have a knife! You can cut through these bars!"

Salome, whose mind was on other things, such as the death of true love and the end of all hope, looked blankly back at him.

Drake gestured to both cages. "They're only Mana resistant! I'm sure you can cut through them!"

Salome frowned. "No. That seems too easy."

"Nothing wrong with easy," Drake assured her. "Come on, try it."

Still frowning dubiously, Salome angled the knife away from her heart and put its edge against one of the bars. She sawed a few times, and the knife sliced through.

"Snap!" said Drake. "Perfect. Okay, you get yourself out first, and then you free me, and then we'll take revenge on the-"

But Salome had put the knife back against her chest.

Drake began shaking his head frantically. "NononononononoNO! Revenge! Zetta would want to be avenged! We have to get out and-"

Salome hung her head. "What does any of that matter now?"

"Gah -Gi -Guh-" It took Drake several crucial moments to align his verbal skills with his thought process. "Salome, then -if not for me, er, Zetta, then -Why die at all? Be strong. Live! Zetta wouldn't want you to die!"

Salome looked up thoughtfully. "You're right." She waved her hand briskly. "But never mind the logic." Taking a deep breath, she pressed the knife tip into her pure, pale skin.

And then there was a swift whirring sound and a freakish little insect swooped into her line of vision, landed between her eyes, and shouted in a small, though rather familiar voice, "NO!"

Spanish: "NO!"

Italian: "NO!"

Arabic: "LA!"

Salome reeled back against the bars of her cage, the knife clattering to the floor. "Zetta-?" she gasped.

The irately buzzing insect seemed rather tired. Salome had no way of knowing that it had burst out of Snivly's left ear, zipped across the field in front of the commander's tent, and reached Salome in under 2.67 seconds flat, but she could see it wobbling a bit in midair as it backed away from her face, giving her enraged looks. In a moment, it was shouting at the top of its minuscule lungs. And the voice, though rather smaller and bit more high-pitched than she'd ever heard it, was unmistakably her beloved's.

"What the hell is going on here? I leave you for half and hour to take care of business, save our asses, reverse our circumstances entirely, and I come back to find you about to perforate yourself with a-"

"Wh-what happened?" Salome said in a strangled voice.

"What _is _that?" Drake asked, sounding a bit disgusted.

"You're a... dowdy-cow?" Salome asked, staring as one mesmerized at her Overlord.

"Ladybug!" the dowdy-cow shouted while flames shot out from his wings. "What were you thinking, trying to kill yourself, why didn't you consult me, I did _not_ authorize that, I have everything under control, you think I did this all so I come back and find you-"

Salome's impulse, at finding Zetta alive and healthy enough to be furious, was to throw herself into his arms. However, that plan didn't seem advisable under present circumstances. "How did-" She gestured at Zetta's empty body.

"I'm gifted and talented," Zetta informed her.

"You're a bug," Drake informed him, in case there was any confusion on the point.

"And _you_," Zetta fired back, "are going to be a heap of free-flowing Mana when I get through with you!"

"Zetta," Salome whispered happily, reaching up to touch his face.

"Hey," Zetta snarled, "don't go whacking me upside the head! Is that the thanks I get for saving our bacon?"

"Hmph," said Drake, not at all happy about how events were transpiring. "How is a _bug_ going to save us?"

"Uh-" said Zetta. As incredible as it seemed, Drake had a point. While Snivly was coming to set him and Salome free, the zombie chieftain would undoubtedly be relieved at finding Zetta's lifeless body. Defenseless body. Zetta winced as he imagined Snivly bending over his corpse, pulling out a cookbook... Zetta shook himself. Well, that just wouldn't happen.

He looked over at his body with more than a little consternation. Jerking his soul out of it had been easy enough, but he wasn't quite sure how to get back in. "Um, just... give me a second." He flapped over and landed on the bridge of his own nose, staring uneasily into his lifeless eyes. The ladybug took a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut, and shouted, "CONFINE!"

Nothing happened.

The ladybug cleared his throat. "Uhm." He paced back and forth several times along the length of his nose.

Salome leaned down towards him. "Well?"

Zetta ran a hand feverishly over his antennae. "Maybe I've got to give my soul a head start." He skibbled down off his nose, over his upper lip, and into his own mouth, grimacing at the humidity. "Okay," he said, voice echoing with the acoustics, "I'll try it from here." There was the sound of a miniature throat being cleared, then, "CONFINE!"

"-Fine, -fine, -fine," said the echoes.

Nothing happened.

Salome closed her eyes and fingered the hilt of her knife again, wondering in what order she would proceed to kill Snivly, Drake and the other members of the MacAbre Clan. Just as she was deciding she'd go in alphabetical order, the body next to hers gave a convulsive lurch, gagged, and spat a small ladybug fifty feet out of its mouth.

"Zetta!" Salome cried, throwing her arms around him.

Zetta, entirely unaware that Salome had almost inadvertently stabbed him, was still gagging and longing desperately for some mouthwash. He struggled to a sitting position just as Snivly MacAbre shuffled up, his hands in the pockets of his kilt.

"Um, listen," said Snivly, "you remember what I said about taking over your Netherworld and eating you all for lunch? Well -you know -my conscience was sorta... bugging me, and I thought I-" He gave a great choking sound as Zetta stood, reached through the bars of his cage, and grasped him by his scrawny neck.

"Always," Zetta breathed, "listen to your conscience."

oOoOoOo

The MacAbre Clan had been put to work cleaning every pair of muddy shoes belonging to Zetta's soldiers. Q and Zetta's platoon had arrived at midmorning, dragging Drake's soldiers along in chains, awaiting Zetta's judgment. Zetta was in no mood to be rushed. After Snivly had released him and Salome, he'd ordered that particular Mana-nulling cage to be disassembled, and he'd commissioned his Netherworld's resident artist to create a commemorative modern art sculpture out of it, to be displayed in the east wing of his castle. Then, he'd gone into his tent-

"What is-?!" Zetta blazed, pulling out his sword as his hair exploded into a raging bonfire, sparks shot out of his nostrils and smoke puffed gently out of his ears.

Pepe jerked awake with a soft scream and sat bold upright, clutching a two-handed flamberge in one hand and a bright red falchion in the other.

Apollo, still in Zetta's favorite clementine-colored pjs, slowly lifted himself off of the beanbag chair and stared at Zetta, horror multiplying on his features by the second.

Moncharmin, still in Zetta's bed, was fast asleep and continued to snore, drooling all over Zetta's pillows.

(That night, Zetta's platoon was gratified to find three newly-reincarnated hell kitties to boss around and do menial labor. Zetta's laundresses, however, were not remotely happy about all the bloodstains that had been mysteriously splashed on his tent, his carpet, the bedding...just about everything.)

So Zetta went into his tent, brushed his teeth, gargled, flossed, and soaked for two and a half hours in his Jacuzzi. By the time Zetta was ready to levy judgment, it was well into the afternoon. Two lackeys carried out his port-a-throne and set it on his port-a-dais in front of his tent. Zetta settled himself on it, invited Salome to sit on the armrest, and banged his ruby-encrusted gavel on the other armrest.

"All right," said Zetta, in his best high-and-mighty mode as Drake was brought forward, still in his cage. Drake's soldiers were arranged in a picturesque crescent behind him, chained and miserable. "You have all been charged with breaking and entering-"

"Zetta-" Drake pleaded. "You wouldn't hurt me-"

"-unprovoked assault-"

"-known you for years, practically raised you, didn't I, always thought you were the nicest little-"

"-and generally being losers. This demands punishment." He bared his fangs. Salome rubbed his shoulder lovingly.

Drake squeaked. "Now, now, don't be hasty. You- don't act rashly, what does your code of law really want in this case? I'm thinking two or three hours of community service-"

Zetta was deep in thought for a moment, then he nodded. "I'm killing you all." He withdrew the Zetta Sword.

In the pandemonium that followed, it was difficult to follow the action. One could say with absolute certainty that people were being punished. Yes, there was much squealing and yelping, reeling and railing, demons being thrown into the air and loop-de-looping, all punctuated by Zetta's happy laughter. But it was difficult to say who was being killed at any given time, unless, of course, you were the one actually being killed. It was all rather a blur.

After five minutes, Zetta leaned against the hilt of his sword and surveyed the damage. Salome smiled fondly, Zetta's elite platoon clapped, and Q stood eagerly at attention.

"All right, Q," Zetta said, feeling all warm and tingly with Mana, "sort through this mess and nab any souls that look worth reincarnating. I'll see to them after dinner. Oh-" He straightened. "And as for King Drake-" Zetta looked around. He frowned. He turned around, scanning the entire clearing for any sign of the Lion Overlord. "What the- Hey, where'd the cage go?"

Zetta's minions all looked around, but there was no sign of King Drake or his Mana-nulling cage. All tingliness vanished from Zetta. "The hell? Where did-" He whipped around, brandishing his sword. "I didn't pulverize the _cage_, did I?"

Salome raised an eyebrow. "You might've. You were in pretty good form there."

"But - Dammit, I want my revenge!" Zetta shouted. He whirled on Cummerbund. "Shut that damn thing off!"

Cummerbund jumped six feet and hastened to comply. Blushing, he switched off the boombox which, for some reason, had been playing "Chariots of Fire".

oOoOoOo

Deep in the marshland jungle, Drake raced to freedom. Oh, they could try to capture him, try to torture him, try to defeat him, but they'd never succeed. Once again, he had outwitted his foes, through sheer guts and willpower, he'd-

"OW!" Drake yelped as the cage hit a large rock and went flying for several feet before it banged back onto the ground and continued its descent.

Yes, no doubt about it, he was King Drake the Mighty, King Drake the Magnificent, charging on to greatness. For a moment, during Zetta's punishment-fest back at the camp, he'd almost -_almost_- been worried, but then Zetta had knocked the cage over, and, unnoticed, Drake had gone rolling away downhill. And rolling. And rolling. The cage had probably been going for miles now. It had been pretty uncomfortable at first, but Drake was getting used to it. He was beginning to think he'd have to get used to it, as there wasn't any level terrain in sight, just downhill slopes, down, down into the mist.

This wasn't one of those flat Netherworlds, was it? The ones where you could just go flying right off the edge and into space if you weren't careful?

No. Of course not. Really.

Would this hill _ever_ end?

Still, he was alive. All in all, a good day to be King Drake the Third.


End file.
